


Seeker, It's Cold Outside

by BECandCall



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Banter, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Cassandra Pentaghast's Disgusted Noises, F/M, Feastday (Dragon Age), Fluff and Humor, Gift Giving, Hawke & Varric Tethras Friendship, Holiday Fic Exchange, Light Angst, Minor Cassandra Pentaghast/Varric Tethras, Minor/Implied Pining, POV Varric Tethras, Past Bianca Davri/Varric Tethras, Reading Aloud, Satinalia (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras Writes, Varric Tethras' Nicknames, Vitriolic Friendship, trapped in a cave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27964532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BECandCall/pseuds/BECandCall
Summary: On their way to delivering urgent orders from the Inquisitor, Varric and Cassandra become mired in a surprise snowstorm and are forced to seek shelter in the first cave they can find. Now they have to survive the night - and each other. And to make matters worse, it's Feastday.
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast/Varric Tethras
Comments: 10
Kudos: 46
Collections: Satinalia 2020





	Seeker, It's Cold Outside

**Author's Note:**

> This fic references a previous one I've written involving an Event between these two, called "A Clean Break" (linky: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20261482). You don't have to have read it to understand the reference, as it's explained in this fic as well, but just in case you wanted to get the full context, there ya go! :)

Varric hated snow. Actually, he hated a good deal about traveling, but snow was definitely in the top three on his “most hated” list. It was cold. It was wet. It stung the face and froze any and all appendages. With a nose as large as his, he had extra reason to hate it for that alone. But what made it the absolute worst was the fact that it killed if one wasn’t careful. And he seemed to have the misfortune of constantly traveling in the company of careless companions. 

“You know what I hate?” he asked, hoping for an audience to vent his frustrations. 

Unfortunately, his audience wasn’t willing to play along - the question received no more than a disapproving growl. The Seeker was in rare form today, pacing a trench right down the center of their cramped little shelter. It was like watching a caged animal. He couldn’t exactly blame her for her impatience, but there was nothing they could do. 

Mere feet away, outside the mouth of the cave - really more of an alcove - they’d found through sheer dumb luck, the snow swirled in a frenzy, blown about by the howling wind. It was just water and ice, but it may as well have been a solid wall of granite for all that they could move through it. They had stumbled around half-blind and more than half-frozen for what seemed like hours before Varric spotted the spec of darkness and, steering them closer, happily discovered it to be a lean-to formed by some large rock formations jutted up against each other. It was almost shrine-like. 

It had taken some convincing to get the Seeker to agree to a respite, however. And now, she was pacing like she expected to still reach Suledin Keep by number of steps alone. 

Varric sighed. “Will you settle down? You’re making me dizzy.” 

“We should keep moving.” 

She did not settle down. She didn’t even pause, and her scowl only deepened. Varric didn’t think that was possible, but there she was, defying all logic. Frowning so deep he swore he saw a permanent crevasse open up between those razor-sharp eyebrows. 

“You think we’re gonna make much progress in that?” He swept an arm out toward the opening, wincing at a new tightness in his side. “I know it’s important, but the message is useless if we die of exposure before we even reach the keep. Just because the Herald managed to pull it off once doesn’t mean you have to go and copy her.” 

“The _Inquisitor_ \---”

“---Will be fine. Tiny’s looking after her. Let’s face it, those two could probably take on the whole quarry by themselves.” Thankfully, she was too smart for that, but still.

“Then why did she send us to gather reinforcements?” 

She really wasn’t going to let up, was she?

“She’ll be fine with a slight delay. Settle down, will ya?” To demonstrate his point, he gently lowered himself onto the cold, packed earth with a pained grunt. There was that tightness again. “We’re not going anywhere until that storm lets up.” 

She whirled on him, fists clenched, more arguments already forming on her lips. But then she stopped short; her eyes widened as they drifted down and zeroed in on his torso. 

“Varric!” she cried. “You’re injured.” 

“Nah, just a scratch.” He meant to wave off her concern, but this time the tightness morphed into a sharp stab, and his arm reflexively retreated back to his side. Looking down, he saw a dark stain slowly spreading over his coat, centered around a jagged tear that hadn’t been there this morning. “Oh. Shit.” 

And he really liked this coat, too. 

The Seeker came to kneel beside him, already setting about pulling off her gauntlets. Her eyes darted up and down with a worried glare, apparently unable to decide where to direct her ire - him or the wound. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she demanded. 

“Well obviously, I’m determined to win the martyr contest the Inquisition has going. I think this puts me into the finals, don’t you?” He should have known disarming with sarcasm never worked with her, and he quickly wilted beneath her fearsome scowl. “It wasn’t exactly a plan, okay? This is the first I’ve noticed.” 

The pain was growing now that he was aware of it. The cold must have numbed it. Add that to the list of reasons why he hated snow. 

“Must have been that scouting party we tripped over coming out of the valley,” he mumbled. His musings were cut off by ice cold hands on his chest, and he let out an undignified yelp. “Shit, Seeker, warn a guy will ya?” Then he realized what she was doing, and grabbed her hands, pulling them away from his sensitive skin. “Oh no, I can take care of myself, thank you.” 

“Don’t be an idiot. You’re injured, and it needs to be tended to.” She jerked out of his grip, but didn’t resume her attempts to disrobe him. 

“But not by you. I’m already in enough pain.” 

She rolled her eyes. “At least let me check how deep it is. You could bleed out. Then I’d have to drag your corpse back to the keep by myself.” 

“But then you’d get the distinct pleasure of lighting my funeral pyre and seeing me burn away to ash.” 

“I rather hoped you’d be alive so I could hear your screams.”

He blinked, a little shocked, but then her mouth twisted in a sardonic grin, and he let out a surprised bark of laughter. 

“Shit, Seeker, that’s dark. Even for you.” 

“It’s been a trying day.” Her grin turned sour, almost wistful. “This isn’t exactly how I was hoping to spend Feastday.” 

He frowned. “Oh shit, that was today, wasn’t it?” 

With everything going on, he’d completely forgotten. He may not be welcome in a chantry, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy its holidays. Any excuse for revelries was just fine in his book. And Feastday was definitely his favorite. Food, gifts, pranks, singing. What’s not to love? And here he was, bleeding like a stuck nug, trapped in a cold rocky crevasse with one of the grouchiest traveling companions he’d ever had the misfortune of being interrogated by. 

“Well, Happy fucking Feastday…” he mumbled dejectedly. He expected another rebuke for the blasphemy, but she fixed him with that glare again, too smart to be side-tracked. 

“You’re being stubborn simply because it’s me, aren’t you?” 

He laughed again, then winced at the resulting pain. “You, calling me stubborn? That’s like a drop of water calling the sea wet.” She lifted her brows expectantly, not taking the bait for once, and he sighed. “Alright, fine. But I’ll handle the disrobing thank you. Don’t need people talking.” 

She made a show of glancing around their stony pocket of solitude. 

“What people?” she asked in a tone so flat he had to pause to check if she was serious. She wasn’t. 

“You know how word gets around these days. I wouldn’t put it past Nightingale to have one of her bird spies following us around just for the juicy gossip.” 

“That’s absurd!” But she didn’t sound entirely sure, which was way more frightening, considering he’d only been joking. Mostly. 

He managed a slight grin, already halfway through the buttons of his coat. She sat back and let him work one arm gingerly out of the sleeve and push it down to expose the injury. He groaned, more in annoyance than from the pain. Okay. Maybe also the pain. 

“Maker…” All trace of humor was gone the instant she laid eyes on the wound. That was probably a bad sign. 

With a bracing breath, he forced himself to look down. It was worse than he’d thought. Twin slashes tore through his skin just under the ribs on the right side, and blood was steadily pouring out with each expansion of his chest. It meandered down his torso, matting the coarse, thick hair that covered his chest and stomach. He vaguely remembered one of those red bastards taking a swipe at him with their gnarled, clawed hands. He thought he’d dodged it in time. Apparently not. 

Stern hands prodded at the edges of the wound tentatively, as the Seeker frowned in concentration over him. He hissed and did his best not to flinch away like his instincts told him to. He only partially succeeded. 

“Stop fidgeting,” she scolded. 

“Sorry, can’t help it.” 

“I won’t hurt you.” She actually sounded a bit hurt at the notion. 

He huffed in amusement. “Believe it or not, Seeker, I’m not actually that afraid of you.” 

“Then hold still.” 

“...I’m ticklish.” 

Her hands paused, withdrew, and he felt his face grow warmer and warmer the longer she stared in open incredulity. The corners of her mouth twitched upward. Great. The one time he managed to make her laugh. 

“Do me a favor,” he muttered, avoiding her gaze. “Don’t spread that around? I was really hoping to take that secret to my grave.” 

“Very well.” She nodded solemnly. “You can count on my discretion.” 

He squinted. “I can’t tell. Are you being sarcastic?” 

Her eyes widened in what might have been offense, if not for the smirk winning its battle with her will as it slowly spread wider. 

“Of course not!” she said. 

“Well shit!” He couldn’t hold back the surprised chuckle. “I didn’t think you had it in you. I might just make a real, actual person out of you after all.” 

“Yes yes, I am a humorless wonder and you are the master of witticism.” Apparently that was about all the ribbing she could tolerate. Heh. Ribbing. Ouch. Laughing still hurt. She noticed his wincing, and the scowl returned. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.” 

“Being the little ray of sunshine in your otherwise dreary life?” 

“Stalling.” 

He grunted. “What’s to stall? It doesn’t look that deep. It’s fine.” 

“It won’t close on its own, and you’re losing blood. And we’re out of healing potions.” Her eyes flitted away and back so quick he thought he might have imagined that. But he didn’t miss the determined pursing of her lips before she said, “It will have to be sewn.” 

“Nope.” 

“That wasn’t a question.” 

“Too bad. You’re not sticking me with any needle and thread. Not a chance.” 

She wasn’t listening, already rooting through her travel pack.

“I would not expect you of all people to be squeamish, dwarf.” 

“Why not me?” His voice was rising slightly as his panic settled in. Clearing his throat as gruffly as possible, he pressed on with his denial. “Have you not been listening to me complaining about practically everything this whole time?” 

“One would be hard put to ignore it.” The eyeroll was audible in her reply as she pulled a small pouch forth from her pack. She shot him a quick, knowing glance as she rooted through this for the nefarious items she was about to torture him with. “And someone who knows you less might mistake it for genuine, and not an excuse for avoidance.” 

“It’s not an excuse if I outright state what I’m avoiding.” He watched with growing horror as she threaded the needle. “I’m a city boy, remember? I hate everything about the outdoors.”

“That’s not what you’re avoiding.” Now she turned to him, a threaded needle in one hand and a flask in the other. He took the flask and drained half of it in two large gulps. If this was happening, he wasn’t gonna be sober for it. She snatched it back mid-swig with an annoyed grunt, resulting in a spray of burning, clear liquid dribbling down his chin. “This is supposed to clean the wound, you lush.” 

Varric wiped the liquor from his chin, biting down on another hiss as she poured the remainder over the wound. He hadn’t gotten nearly enough out of that flask to take the edge off his anxiety, so he settled for distraction. 

“Okay, I’ll bite. What am I avoiding?” 

The Seeker’s eyes flicked up to him, then back onto the wound. She frowned in steeley concentration as she lined up the needle at the top of one of the slashes. 

“Connection,” she said just as she plunged the needle in. 

Varric hissed and groaned, but managed to hold himself still. He may hate needles, but he’d already shown more of himself than he cared to - literally and metaphorically. Even so, he couldn’t watch while the work was done, so he averted his gaze, fixing it determinedly on a tiny dint in the Seeker’s armor at the shoulder. It looked like a sword strike. Must have been a close call. She had a bad habit of charging scowl-first into any fray, with little care for her own wellbeing. That level of fearless heroism was as admirable as it was annoying, and reminded him more than a little of someone else with a bad habit of diving straight into the fire - usually with a smartass quip while she did. The memory made him smile. 

“Connection?” He finally processed her response. “To what? You?” 

The needle was in and out, and he felt the thread as it wove between planes of flesh, tugging with a sharp tingle that made the rest of his skin crawl and his vision swim. 

“To anyone who isn’t Hawke.” 

That shut him up. And not even because she was right. Well, not only because she was right. He tried to dismiss her accusation. She’d probably just been spending too much time around Tiny. But the longer the silence stretched, the more the words rattled around in his head. It sounded half-familiar, somehow. Like it had been laid at his feet once before. Not by Tiny though. Who then? 

His gaze flitted over to where Bianca lay, carefully leaning against the rock, always within easy reach. Nah, he wasn’t lacking connection. He had all he needed right by his side. Besides, everyone liked him well enough. Present company excluded, naturally. Figures, he’d be stuck in a Maker-forsaken hole in the middle of a snow storm with the one person who seemed to actively detest him. He really needed to stop letting her get into his head so much. 

He managed to make it through the rest without spilling his guts all over the ground, and he even managed to stay conscious. So you know, small miracles. When the Seeker finished, she sat back and examined her work, still frowning. Never satisfied, that one. But then she looked up at him and her frown deepened. 

“That’s the best I can do. You can get it re-sewn when we get to the keep. Spare me your complaints.” 

“I didn’t say a thing.” In truth, the stitches could be more crooked than a Carta merchant, but he’d never know. No way was he gonna look at it. The thought alone was enough to make him dizzy again. 

“Are you alright?” She leaned forward, seemed to reach out with her hand, then thought better of it and withdrew again. “You look pale.” 

“Well you did just shove a needle through my flesh multiple times, over my repeated objections I might add.”

The concern in her face twisted into wounded pride. She looked like she might say something else, but after her mouth opened and shut on false starts a couple times, she gave up. Instead, she handed him a pile of white cloth strips to wrap over the wound. Meanwhile, she retreated to the opposite corner, sorting through her pack with one hand while undoing her armor with the other. His bleeding had stopped by then, but he must have lost more than he thought, because his hands did look distinctly pale, and his face felt colder than usual. 

Although maybe that was just from the… well… cold. 

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a fire?” he asked hopefully. 

“No wood.” She absently tore off a piece of hard bread and tossed it to him. One pauldron fell to the floor as she started on the other. “Eat.” 

“Easier said than done.” 

He tapped the bread against the rock behind him, making a knocking sound. Not so much as a crumb fell off, and all he got for his trouble was another stab of pain as his stitches pulled. The Seeker ignored him. The second pauldron joined the first, soon followed by her greaves. 

Hmm. No fire meant nothing to keep the cold away while they slept. Not a good time to be without a mage. The thought brought another pang of nostalgia for Hawke. He’d sent a letter after her to Weisshaupt weeks ago, but hadn’t heard back yet. 

Sera! 

A burst of epiphany sparked in his mind as he remembered it had been her who’d accused him once before of avoiding folks in the Inquisition. The notion had struck him as absurd at the time. Wasn’t he the one everyone crowded around in the evenings? He started card or dice games, told stories, told jokes, joined in on songs despite his horrendous voice. He drank, he laughed, he listened… 

But that was the point, wasn’t it? To keep the focus on everyone else. 

Shit, maybe the Seeker was right. 

That thought was cut off by a shiver, and he quickly shrugged back into his coat. Then, for good measure, he took his bedroll out and spread it over the ground, doing his best to keep his movements tight and slow to avoid aggravating his injury. Fully spread out, it took up half the space. That would keep some of the cold out from underneath, at least. 

“Hey, get your bedroll out,” he said. 

She paused in the act of setting her chestplate down to join the rest of her armor, and her eyes lifted to regard him with wary suspicion. 

“Why?” 

“So we can share,” he answered, gesturing to his improvised mat. 

It took another second before her eyes widened in dawning horror. “Absolutely not!” 

“You said it yourself, Seeker. We’ve got nothing to build a fire with. In these temperatures, that could be dangerous. I don’t like it either, but we’re gonna have to bundle up together if we’re gonna last the night.” 

Huh. Was that a blush creeping up her cheeks? The light was getting dim, so he couldn’t be sure. He turned away so she wouldn’t see the smirk spreading across his face. If she saw that they’d have no chance. She was a stubborn one, alright. If she even suspected he was getting any amusement out of this, she would park herself in the corner and let them both die of exposure without any regrets. 

“I promise, I won’t tell a soul about it. We can sleep back to back, keep each other upright. That way there’s no chance of any, um, accidents.” 

He shouldn’t have. He really shouldn’t have, but sometimes he just couldn’t help himself. 

Her face was definitely flushed now, but it was in anger. She rose to her full height, nearly knocking her head against the low ceiling. 

“Screw you, dwarf! I hope you freeze.” 

He crossed his arms, barely managing to avoid a grimace at the extra pressure over his ribs. 

“And just what are you gonna do? Pace all night?”

She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps.”

He could have laughed if it wasn’t actually pretty sad. Not to mention the pain it would cause. Talk about avoiding connections. Instead, he just released a long, weary sigh. 

“Come on, Seeker. Is death really preferable to being near me for a few hours? Look, hand to Andraste, I’ll be a perfect gentleman.” He held up one hand in demonstration of his sincere intentions. 

She crossed her own arms in a taller, more intimidating mirror of his own posture. The stony silence said a lot, and he knew with a pang of guilt exactly what she was thinking about. The memory of The Event had been poking and prodding at the periphery of his awareness all evening. This was the first time the two of them had been alone - truly alone - since it happened. Was that deliberate? And if so, by whose design: his or hers?

The Event. His lowest point. And that was saying something. He’d been a complete mess after what had gone down with Bianca - the real Bianca. When the Seeker had come to check on him, he’d been desperate; a drowning man grasping at any life line to pull him out of that whirlpool of despair. The kiss had just been an extension of that desperation. He’d known it was wrong, and that was why he’d shoved her out of his room immediately afterward. Before he did something he couldn’t take back. Before he drowned her too. 

He blamed Sparkler for even putting the notion into his head. Before his idiotic questions about the exact nature of their relationship, it had never occurred to him to think of her as anything but his former captor and interrogator. Before that, he never would have seen anything beyond hateful sniping back and forth as an option. 

Then he’d gone and fucked it all up. And neither of them had brought it up since. But now here they were, alone again. He was sober this time, at least. And though cutting off ties with Bianca still hurt, he wasn’t anywhere near the pathetic mess he’d been then. 

Still. It happened once. Which meant it might happen again. And that took all of the fun out of his playful mockery of the possibility. 

Clearing his throat, he tried again. 

“I know this isn’t ideal. It’s about the farthest from what either of us actually wants to be doing, tonight of all nights. But it’s what we’ve got. If we don’t stick together tonight, we’re not making it to the keep tomorrow. Then who gets the Inquisitor her reinforcements?”

That did the trick. He saw the point land and register in her face. Slowly, reluctantly, she uncrossed her arms and crouched next to her pack. With deliberate movements, she unfurled her bedroll and crossed over to where he’d laid his out. How did she manage to look like she was marching with so little space?

Without a word, he sat down behind her, pressing his back against hers, and eagerly grabbed at the covering when she offered it. The temperature was dropping fast, and it hadn’t been all that high to begin with. At first, neither of them spoke, but Varric wasn’t the type to be comfortable with silence for long. 

“I spy with my little eye…” 

“No.” 

“Come on, Seeker. We can’t stay quiet the whole night.”

“You can’t, perhaps.” 

“Damn straight. So how about a joke? Two Antivan Crows walk into a brothel…” 

“No.” 

“...Knock knock?”

“No!” 

“You’re no fun.” 

“Agreed.” She did indeed sound firmly in agreement on that. “Now go to sleep.” 

“Can’t. Hurts too much.” He shifted, letting out a pained grunt that was only a little exaggerated. “You don’t have a second flask in that bag, do you?”

“I wasn’t even anticipating needing the entirety of the first one.” She half-turned. “I’m surprised you don’t have one yourself.” 

“I did,” he grudgingly admitted. “But I drank it.” 

“Mm.” 

He tried - he really did - to be still and quiet long enough to fall asleep, but he hadn’t been lying before. The pain was keeping him awake, and despite his dismissiveness earlier, he really was pretty worried. He hadn’t liked leaving the Inquisitor behind any more than the Seeker - even under orders, even with Tiny staying behind to look after her. His mind kept conjuring all manner of horrific scenarios that they might run into, with all the flourish and attention to detail of a writer’s imagination. 

After what felt like an eternity, but practically was more like a few minutes, he stirred and gingerly rose to his feet, prompting another frustrated grunt from his stalwart companion. 

“Will you sit _down_? You’re going to pull your stitches.” 

“In a sec. I need something.” What he needed was a distraction, and since conversation was apparently off the table, he’d have to settle for a contingency. Rummaging through his pack, he closed his hands around a hardened leather pouch. Grabbing it, he quickly retreated back under the bedroll with a shiver and, without looking back to see her expression, handed the pouch over with a rushed mumble of, “Happy Feastday.”

For a full three heartbeats, she didn’t move or breath, and the pouch hovered awkwardly between them. Then, hesitantly, she reached out and took it from his grasp. 

“What…?” 

“I tried to get it done sooner, but, well, shit kept coming up. But I figured you’d still want to be the first one to read it, so there ya go.” 

He heard her unwrapping the pouch and pulling out its contents - a meticulously copied manuscript, about two fingers thick, with large, blocky script centered on the first page. He felt her back retreat slightly as she hunched over, likely squinting to see the letters in the near-darkness. 

“ _Arrows and Quivers_.” She gasped. “Varric, is this…?” 

“A follow-up for _Swords and Shields_ , yeah.” He shrugged, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Turns out, that last chapter I wrote for you got spread around Skyhold. It generated enough noise that my editor agreed to give the series another shot. I guess the market’s turning around in Orlais. They love trashy romance there---” 

But his words were cut off when two impossibly long, strong arms wrapped around him in a fierce hug that would have put any bear to shame. 

“Oh Varric! Thank you, thank you! I can’t tell you how much I’ve wanted to ask you for another one, but after you swore you’d never pick it back up again, I didn’t dare hope…” 

“Yeah yeah,” he grunted. “Don’t forget, I’m still injured over here. Easy on the ribs.” 

“Oh! Right. Sorry.” 

She retreated with a sigh that could only be described as girlish whimsy, and he heard the turning of pages. Followed by a frustrated sigh. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You can’t possibly have a complaint from anything that happened on the first page.” He made sure the painful plot twist didn’t occur until the second act. 

“It’s… too dark! I can’t read it!” She sounded positively forlorn, and he half expected to hear the manuscript to slam against the rock wall next. Instead, he felt its corner poking into his shoulder. He half-turned - as far as he could without causing more pain - and lifted a quizzical eyebrow at her. She was staring at him, somehow wide-eyed and sheepish at the same time. “Will you read it to me?” 

He blinked, opened his mouth, shut it. Tried again. 

“I beg your pardon?” He couldn’t possibly have heard that right. 

“You can see in the dark, right?” 

“Well, yeah, sort of.” Dwarves did have decent low light vision, it was true. As a night owl who did most of his best work in the predawn hours, he found it pretty useful. He’d never used it for anything like this, however. “But I thought you wanted me to shut up?” 

“Please! In the morning there won’t be time. Even after we reach Suledin Keep, we’ll have to return immediately to the quarry with the reinforcements. I don’t know when I’ll get the chance to read it for myself, and I cannot possibly wait that long. Please?” 

Unbelievable. She was begging. The Seeker, Cassandra Allegra Portia Fill-in-the-Rest Pentaghast, former Right Hand of the Divine and unofficial proto-leader of the Inquisition. Was begging. Varric. 

To. Read. To. Her. 

It was too surreal. And the worst part was no one would ever believe him. 

Well… At least it would fill the silence. 

Slowly, tentatively, still not quite believing any of this was really happening, he reached out and, plucking the pages from the awkward space between them, settled back against her sturdy frame to read. His voice filled the small cavern for some time after. Rising in tempo with the action scenes, low and husky for the love scenes. He didn’t have much range vocally, but he did what he could to give the characters unique voices. He was actually a little proud that most of them sounded distinct enough from word choice alone that the Seeker had little difficulty following who was speaking. She let out a contented sigh at the first kiss between the main pair, and gasped in indignant shock when one took a severe injury during the main action piece of act one. 

There were a few clumsy parts - run-on sentences he hadn’t caught yet, or head-hopping that was unintentional. Imagery that fell flat. He quietly marked those down in the margins with a charcoal pencil to be corrected later, and kept going. 

By the time he was nearing the midpoint twist of act two, he heard the breathing behind him grow slow and steady, and the previously rigid posture became slack. He looked back and saw that she was slumped forward in sleep. Quietly, he marked his place and returned the manuscript to the leather pouch. Careful not to disturb her, he rose and tucked the pouch into an inner pocket of her pack, where he knew she would find it while unpacking back at Skyhold. Then he returned to the warm shelter of the bedroll. The cold was still there, stubborn and unbearable. And he was really missing the contents of his flask now. Not to mention any food resembling something edible. 

But as he settled back down, leaning against his companion’s surprisingly comfortable - and warm - frame, things didn’t seem quite so bad after all. Tomorrow, they would brave the cold again, get the reinforcements they needed, then get back to the quarry and help the Inquisitor send those red templar bastards to the deepest part of the Void. Then they’d all go back to the keep, or maybe all the way back to Skyhold, where Ruffles would no doubt make sure they had all the trimmings of a belated Feastday celebration. He could almost taste the smoked ham. 

But despite his best efforts to imagine hot meals and strong drinks, his mind stubbornly focused on one brief moment of shared breath instead. Her surprisingly soft lips, her brief shock, then an exhale of blissful surrender, one hand coming up to cup his cheek, the other coming around to thread through his unwashed hair. Her hurt confusion when he’d pulled away. The lingering betrayal in her glare passing him in the great hall the next morning. Her silence then had spoken volumes, and he knew a second chance was out of the question. 

Or at least he’d assumed. Maybe it was unfair, the assumption that she held onto grudges with a death grip. Maybe her jibe about avoiding attachments was more right than he’d thought. Maybe the problem wasn't her. She would deny all of this tomorrow, of course, would pretend it had never happened. Just like he would. But if she was willing to show that sappy romantic side of herself again after the stunt he pulled? If they could go back to the friendly banter he begrudgingly admitted he’d been missing? Maybe it wasn’t so hopeless after all. 

“Happy Feastday, Cassandra,” he murmured in the moment before sleep finally took him. 

“Happy Feastday, Varric,” came her response, whispered, unheard, into the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> Credit goes to my husband for the title "Arrows and Quivers". It was too good not to use!


End file.
